When the Tides Run High
by anthony's angel
Summary: One day, Tom Riddle loses his temper at the wrong person and becomes cursed so that his appearance would represent his heart. Years after the incident when he becomes but a monster in a child's tale, along comes Harry...


_Prologue  
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_Boom! Boom! Boom!_ Knocking – no, _pounding_ – reverberated off the pair of giant doors. The prince frowned. Those fools of servants were going to pay dearly. He had specifically instructed them to intercept any and all visitors while he was in the library.

_Boom! Boom! Boom!_ Where were those idiots? Shouldn't one of them have gotten rid of that damned trespasser in by now? _Boom! Boom! B— _The now-malevolent royal threw open the large panels of wood, much to the protests of his aching arms, and snarled at the puny figure that had dared set hand to mar his beautiful oaken doors.

"Have you no patience, you pitiful wench?" he cried, taking in the woman's appearance. A sorry sight she was, with faded layers of rags and shoeless feet. "Speak and begone!"

Now had the prince not let his temper cloud his mind, he may have noticed something off… particularly the guards he had set on watch that stood so still they seemed not to breathe; but he hadn't. And with his ignorance, he charged into the oncoming maelstrom.

"I give no charity to beggars, nor audience to mere common folk. My castle is no inn. Wench, you had better have a good reason for disturbing my peace or, _by God, _you shall be sorry for your impertinence."

The woman narrowed her eyes in fury and in anger.

"Now listen hither, thou foul and wretched serpent! Thine humble guest has sought thee from far morrows, and thou hast been naught but dastardly to _thee._ Hast thou no shame? Then _thou_ shalt transform thee to a most befitting being so thy skin shall be thine heart."

As soon as the curse left the woman's lips, the prince crumpled in agony. His limbs twisted, bones cracked, and his shrills horrifying enough to make even the foulest of daemons creep and shudder. Never had he known such pain as this. In futile attempt to cease the torture, the once high and mighty prince writhed on the dirty cobbled path, crying tears of despair. Writhing and crying; writhing and crying; why won't it stop? Many he had tortured and broken, but never was he ever the one to receive. Was this how his prisoners felt as he ripped them limb from limb? Or were their pains worse than this? Impossible. Nothing could be more agonising than this. Nothing.

The woman watched in morbid fixation, the soldiers in horror. They watched as he screamed his throat hoarse, as his figure melded into a beast's. Slowly as the tribulation came to an end did the man's cries die down into sobs.

"Curious," commented the woman in rags. "Thou hast a most foulest of hearts if thoust suffered so… Yet thy figure be still akin of a mortal's.

"Come along then," she said, heaving the disfigured prince to his feet. "We haven't all undermeal and morn to fix thy mien to orderly. Now where be thy chambers?" Pausing, the woman turned to the men at the gates and freed them from their spell. "Ye be wise to speak not a whisper of this," she addressed them before returning to the task at hand. "Ah, dear maid, wouldst thou be kind enough to guide us to the master's chambers? Thanks be to thee."

Knowing what awful – and aweful – things the stranger was capable of, the maid immediately complied. She had not, after all, survived in this castle for so long by being ignorant to the possibilities that come with any sort of person's mood. So the maid hurriedly led them to the prince's rooms before making a quick exit with a request to draw a bath.

As the door softly closed behind them, the woman inspected the room with mild interest whilst manoeuvring the prince into a velvety, forest-green wingback chair. And the prince caught his reflection in the full-length mirror. He broke free from the woman's grip and strode to his frightful replica. Who was this that stood before him? He touched his face; it touched its pallid face. He touched his mouth; a single long, spidery hand felt those cold, colourless lips. He brought a trembling hand up to his nose: flat, virtually gone, two slits for nostrils… like a snake. He yanked off his robes and examined his chest: It was riddle with markings reminiscent to that of a snake's. His entire _appearance_ was snake-like. And his eyes – his beautiful cerulean eyes – now crimson like the blood in his veins… Was his blood still red even?

"What delightful décor thou hast. Oh, serpents! How very appropriate… And the green. A wonderful colour for such a handsome room."

The prince started. In all his thoughts, he had forgotten about his unwelcome visitor. Oh, God, his hair…

"Have you enough, witch?" he screamed. "Must you rub salt into the bleeding wounds? Did you delight in my screams, you sadistic wench? Why are you here? Why won't you leave me be?"

"Nay, I cannot and will not. Twas not mine intention to bring such ill will unto thee…" A pause. "Perhaps that curse was too harsh for thee, but one must wondereth the reasons for thy pain.

"Forgive thee," she sighed. When the prince didn't answer, she continued on. "My name be Brighid of the Faerie Realm. I have sought thee since I learnt of thy father's death and would have sought thee since thy mother's passing if I had been allowed."

The prince looked at her wide-eyed with a near hysterical disbelief. "You lie. There is no such thing as faeries. None!"

"Tis not. I know the reason of thy denial, but I speak the truth. Thy mother eke be a fae as I. She be a dear friend of mine."

"That would make me—"

"A halfling for thy father was a mortal."

They were interrupted from their conversation as a knock resounded from the door. The maid from before had come to tell them the bath was prepared and awaiting. Finding his entire body now sore, the prince grudgingly accepted the faerie's aid and let her lead them to his bath chamber. As the prince was preparing himself in the recess, the woman hunched over the ledge and peered into the water. She drew a casket from her rags, a mortar and a pestle. Sounds of grinding reached the prince's ears.

"Trying to poison me, witch?" interrogated the prince.

Laughter. "I've better ways than this," the woman replied offhandedly. "Herbs, dear, for thine aches."

All soreness was instantly soothed as soon as the prince submerged himself into the bath. Perhaps the witch was good for something after all. He closed his eyes and let sweet-scented waters calm the years worth of mangled nerves. Comfortable silence filled the air, and the prince briefly wondered if the woman had left. Opening his eyes, he found said woman sitting on the ledge of the window that overlooked the castle's courtyard.

"Drop in one of the melin beads if thou art feeling numb."

Speaking of it, his body _did_ seem a bit too relaxed for his own good. He frowned and looked along the edge of the pool where the wicker casket was left. The prince lifted the lid on its hinge and glanced through the assortment of containers, bundles and pouches. Picking up a small glass jar, he uncorked it and dropped a quince-yellow bead into his bath.

There was another moment of silence before the prince finally spoke.

"I'm Thomas Marvolo Riddle." A hesitant pause. "That's Lord Marvolo to you."

The faerie eyed the half-fae with quiet observation as though weighing the truth of his words.

"Tom," she said with a wicked grin, and the prince scowled in reply.

"Why do you wear such rags?" he asked. "One would think a faerie would be adorned in much more… appeasing garments."

"Ay. Our cloths lose lustre in the Mortal Realm as do we. Tis just the way it is. Quite an aid if we need not be conspicuous, but loathsome when splendour is required.

"I shall leave thee for the eventide and return in morrow's dayspring." And the woman got up to stretch and gather her things.

The prince – now dubbed Tom – threw her a nasty look and snarled, "May a viper strike you at your first step on the return to my lands."

The faerie merely laughed in amusement and replied, "My lord, no need to be bitter. Thou shouldst know no curse lasts for aye as a blessing wouldst." Grinning, she returned the wicker casket back into the seas of faded cloth. "Come I shall to morrow and fare thee well to day. Many thanks for thine hospitality… or lack thereof."

With that, the faerie disappeared, leaving only the vow of return and the ill-conceived gift in its wake. At dawn the following day, the woman came back as promised, much to the prince's chagrin, bearing an armful of scriptures and pocketfuls of trinkets. Day after day this process repeated: In the mornings she'd appear at the castle door with tokens and treasures from the Faerie Realm, and at night she would return from whence she came only taking back what is required or unwanted. Little by little the prince learnt the secrets of his heritage and used it frequently thereafter.

Years went by and life carried on regardless of the prince's inactivity. He had withdrawn from the world outside and no one knew of his health for those that had witnessed the castle's events said nothing in fear of the faerie's wrath, but this would not stop the little birds from twittering about. Villagers would speculate the happenings of the castle and of the prince; rumours of the strangest would be muttered in dark corners. And when the time came for a messenger to deliver, he would wander the forests for days before giving up and asking for aid. The villager who'd be stopped and questioned would only shake his head and say: "Those who look for the castle can never find it."

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><p><strong>Disclaimer:<strong> I do not own _Harry Potter_, or _Beauty and the Beast_. This fic was written on a spur of inspiration and for my own enjoyment. The usual.


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